


The Beast You've Made of Me

by Naimonia



Category: Newsies (1992), Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Blood, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Spot gets super drunk and fights people, Violence, and not in a good way, fair warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-13
Updated: 2016-11-21
Packaged: 2018-08-30 18:13:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8543824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Naimonia/pseuds/Naimonia
Summary: Spot didn’t want to think anymore. Him and Race had fought. One of their worst to date. Spot walked out. So Spot dealt with his problems the only way he knew how.Cheap bars, cheap beer, and cheaper fights. He would come to regret it.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from Howl by Florence and the Machine

 

Spot didn’t want to think anymore. He didn’t want to think, to _feel,_ to do anything that required brain power. Him and Race had fought. One of their worst to date. They had argued, insulted, yelled, and spat until they both had enough and Spot walked out. If he didn’t leave when he did, it would have gotten far, far worse. He would have done something he regretted. So he left.

 

He didn’t know what him and Race were anymore and didn’t want to think about it. The thought of them being over, not recovering from their fights as they had done in the past were crippling. Tendrils of doubt and fear and self loathing snaked inside his chest, creeping over his vital organs, winding themselves around his ribs. And if he thought about it, the tendrils began to squeeze. Strangling his insides until he could no longer bear it. So he didn’t think.

 

It was hard. At first he was miserable, feeling sorry for himself and lying prone on Crutchy’s couch. He didn’t do anything but lay there and wallow in pity. He knew if he stayed there any longer he’d be receiving a lecture from Davey. So he left. He grabbed his bag, dumped it in his car and headed for his own place. And then when he couldn't take the crippling loneliness, he left.

 

Spot headed for the nearest bar. It was dark and seedy, filled with people drowning their sorrows in booze and anger just like he planned to. He had enough of thinking. So he sat at the bar, drinking glass after glass until any thoughts of Race were drowned in cheap beer.

 

He started to feel the gaze of the bartender and the other patrons judging him. They thought he didn’t belong in a bar like this. He was too young, too innocent, too pretty, too skinny, too weak, too dumb, too silent, too incapable, too everything that meant he didn’t belong. Spot just glared at his drink, seeking something in the liquid that couldn’t be found.

 

Spot chugged down the rest of his drink, wanting to feel the alcohol running through his veins. He put it down with a faint slam on the bar, glaring at his now empty glass.

 

“Refill?” The bartender asked, raising an eyebrow at Spot, who was now well on his way to getting well and truly smashed. He nodded, not saying a word. He didn't want to say anything that would spark pity from anyone in the shithole of a bar he was in. He knew he looked like trash, and he knew the alcohol wasn't helping the image. But Spot didn't care. He took his now refilled drink and looked around the bar.

 

It was shady as hell, with dark and starting to deteriorate paint on the walls. The decor was falling apart, but the tables seemed sturdy enough and the booze was cheap, so Spot wasn't complaining. He doubted the people weren't either.

 

The bar was quite full for a Monday evening, with various patrons scattered about, lingering in booths and at tables, with a few of the more drunk ones dancing badly on the ‘dance floor’, which in actuality was just an empty space in the centre of the room. Spot was almost alone at the bar, which he was thankful for. He didn't want to sit next to anyone while he was like this. Miserable, drunk, and getting angrier by the minute.

 

If he didn't know how to handle an emotion, Spot resorted to anger. It was an emotion he knew. It was almost a safety. A constant. Anger was easy to understand. It didn't trick you or deceive you, it was pure and unbridled. Anger ran through you like a wave in a flood and Spot planned to ride that wave until the end. It was better than any of his other options.

 

The only two other at the bar people were a couple not much older than he, but they were quiet and if Spot ignored them he could almost cope with the fact they were a couple. He didn't want to see other people in their loving happy relationships since he was sure his went down the drain.

 

So Spot continued to sit. Watching the people. Watching his drink. He wasn't sure how long he sat there but at the very least he knew he was well on his way to drunk with no intentions of stopping any time soon. Stopping would mean sobering up. And sobering up would mean having to think about what happened.

 

Him and Race had fought before. It was expected. They were both angry people, and both stubborn as hell. Their fights were bad, but never really lasted long. Someone would come to their senses, or Davey would _make_ someone come to their senses, or someone would just get sick of fighting and give up. But not this time. It was too big to ignore and they both knew it. So Spot left and hadn’t been back since.

 

Leaning on the bar, Spot let his gaze drift over the bar. Looking at the taps (broken), the alcohol bottles (half empty), and the bartender (tired). He let out a long sigh, swirling the liquid around in his glass.

 

“Rough day?” The bartender asked, quirking an eyebrow at him. Spot just raised his own eyebrow in return. “You look like someone just ran over your cat.”

 

“Something like that,” Spot responded, his answer vague enough to give away any details, but just enough that he wasn’t a complete dick. He was sitting right in front of the man, it wouldn’t do to make the guy hate him.

 

Someone else walked into the bar, letting a draft blow through, distracting the bartender away from the grim look on Spot’s face. His shoulders sagged with relief. He didn’t want to talk about it. He wasn’t a ‘talk about your feelings’ kind of guy, in fact, he was a ‘ignore your feelings for as long as possible’ kind of guy. It wasn’t the best, Spot knew that, but there wasn’t much he could do.

 

His gaze drifted to the couple down the bar. She was obviously into him, leaning forward and laughing at almost everything he said. She was smiling, baring shining white teeth as they talked. Spot resisted the urge to pull a face.

 

Having nothing better to do, he watched them out of the corner of his eye. The man had his back to him, so he couldn’t see how he was reacting to the woman’s flirting, but she wasn’t being rejected, so he supposed she must be doing something right. The woman leaned forward and put his hand on his shoulder, before smiling and walking away to the bathroom. Spot almost laughed. No doubt the bathroom in this place would be absolutely disgusting, he almost felt sorry for her. Spot turned back to the bar and took another long swig of his drink.

 

The man at the bar coughed, so Spot turned his body just that slightest amount so he could watch him without looking like he’s watching him. He was also quite tipsy, so if he was staring they could both just blame it on alcohol. The man pulled something out of his coat pocket, hiding it in the palm of his hand. He looked around to see if anyone was watching, before leaning over to pour it in the lady’s drink.

 

He spiked the drink. That fucker. Spot looked over at the other end of the bar.The bartender was still chatting with the person who just came in, and didn’t look like he’d seen that asshole try to drug the girl. She would be back from the bathroom soon, and Spot needed to do something.

 

He could tell the bartender. But the bartender might not believe him. The man might defend himself. The girl might drink it before anyone does something.

 

Spot had to do something himself. He was the only one who saw, and had enough alcohol to not give a shit about consequences. The man was extremely tall, and quite buff, but Spot knew if it came to a fight, he could handle himself, drunk or not.

 

The girl walked back from the bathroom, sitting on her stool and slipping into conversation with the man. Spot stood up and walked over to the pair. He stood between them, the man turning to glare at Spot.

 

“What do you want?” The man sneered, gripping his glass tightly. He didn’t look happy with Spot’s interference.

 

“A chat with this young lady here,” Spot replied, smiling at the pair, attempting to charm them as much as his drunk state would allow. “Is that a crime?”

 

“She’s not your girl, so fuck off,” The man grunted in response. The girl just looked bewildered. Confused as to why the guy was so possessive, why Spot came over, why the man wanted Spot to leave. Any were possible. But she was too confused to take a drink, which was the main thing.

 

“I didn’t say she was mine, ya dickhead,” Spot said, tensing his body in preparation for what he felt was inevitably going to come. The man’s gaze hardened. He turned to the girl. “Sorry to interrupt your night, but this fucker spiked your drink.”

 

The girl’s jaw dropped, gaping over at the man. “Trent? Is that true?”

 

The man - Trent - tried to backtrack, and deny it all. “Babe, of course not, you know i’d never do anything like that to you.”

 

“Yeah, sure,” Spot snorted, pulling a face at the man. “Would you be willing to prove that?”

 

“I don’t have to prove anything to you,” Trent spat, shifting so he was on the edge of his seat. “You little punk.”

 

“I’ll get out of your way if you can prove ya didn’t drug this nice lady’s glass,” Spot said, calm as ever. “Drink it.”

 

Trent stood up, getting up in Spot’s face. Or as close as he could get given that he was close to a foot taller than he was. “What did you say?”

 

“Drink it.”

Turning to the girl, Trent spoke again, getting defensive. He was getting louder, and Spot could see people starting to stare. Good. “Babe, you wouldn’t believe this punk over me, would ya?”

 

The girl spoke meekly, staring at Trent, and then at her drink. “I don’t know what to believe.”

 

“That’s nice, man, really, but are ya gonna drink it?” Spot raised an eyebrow at the man, resisting the urge to give him one of his trademark smirks. He was egging the man on, taking not so subtle digs. The man also had a few drinks in him - not as much as Spot - but enough that the comments were getting to him. If this Trent guy was like a lot of drunks Spot knew, he’d reach the point where the only option left to his drunken mind is to respond with his fists. Spot knew it was coming. In fact, he was counting on it.

 

He wanted the rush of a fight. The adrenaline pumping through his veins, the satisfaction of landing a perfect blow. Hell, even the feeling of a fist colliding with his face. A fight wasn’t just a fight, it was a competition. And Spot wanted to win. He knew how to fight, and he was good at it. Even with alcohol flowing through him he felt he could take Trent.

 

When he fought, the world disappeared from around him. It was just him and his opponent, with the talents they had and a drive to win. Fists colliding with bodies, skin bursting open, bones creaking, minds rushing with so many emotions. Fighting was a thrill.

 

“I don’t have to do shit for you,” Trent spat, glaring daggers at Spot. “You fucking midget. So fuck off.”

 

“Not gonna happen.” Spot said, letting his body tense. He needed the other man to punch him first. So this Trent dude would be in the wrong, and get all the blame. He already attempted to roofie a girl, and with the way he was acting, he wasn’t past the idea of a fight. Spot knew what had to happen. He had been in enough fights to know the drill. “Since you already tried to pull shit with this lady.”

 

“You keep talking shit and I’ll punch that smug look off your face,” Trent spat, clenching his fists, which were still at his sides. For now. “Teach you for throwing false accusations.”

 

“Wow,” Spot said sarcastically. “You actually know the phrase ‘false accusations’? I’m shocked. Who would’ve thought an abusive ass like you knew proper English?”

 

Trent snorted. “Coming from the boy who can’t pronounce anything correctly.”

 

“It’s called an accent dumbass,” Spot said, a smug look on his face. He couldn’t show that anything Trent was saying was getting to him. It wasn’t - which helped. He had heard far worse from people whose opinion was supposed to matter. ”

 

“You’re just jealous a fucking shrimp like you doesn’t have a girl like this,” Trent bragged. Spot sneered, the man was treating her like a piece of meat.

 

“After tonight, I doubt you’ll have a girl like that either.” Spot threw at Trent, hoping his insults were hitting home with the man. “Since you resorted to a fuckin’ date rape drug. Who knew you were so embarrassed with yourself that the only way you could get a woman to sleep wit’ ya was if you drugged her?”

 

The man was seething with anger, it was starting to roll off him in waves. His fists were clenched and he was glaring daggers at Spot. “Shut the fuck up, asshole.”

 

“No need to be rude,” Spot snarked. “I’m just being a decent human bein’. Since you fuckin’ failed at that.”

 

The man growled with drunken anger, his clenched fist shaking by his sides. He brought up his fist, swinging it towards Spot’s face. He tried to brace himself for the blow that was coming and needed to come, but the force of the guy’s fist against his face shook him. Spot rolled out of the punch, steeling himself for the real fight. If he was lucky, the man wouldn’t get a chance to hit him again. But Spot was drunk, and filled with enough pain d renched anger that he was getting unpredictable.

 

The man was bigger and stronger than he was, but Spot had the speed and agility. If he could dodge the guy’s swings then he could get enough hits in to win. The man steeled himself for another punch, pulling back his arm. Spot ducked under the swing, stepping out of the way. He threw a punch at the man’s ribs. The man grunted, but didn’t falter.

 

The man continued to punch. He relied on brute force, pushing all his strength through a single fist into Spot’s body. He landed blows into Spot’s side, his face, once in his stomach. He couldn’t feel anything. Adrenaline canceling out all sense of pain. Leaving him with sweat on his brow. Alcohol in his belly. Blood in his mouth. Blood on his fists.

 

Spot was drunker than he thought.The man was stronger than he thought. But Spot didn’t lose. He never lost. He threw his own hits. Dodging heavy blows. Moving, always moving, constantly shifting with the motion of the fight. He waited for his opportunity. Where he could hit with the most force. Make it count.

 

The man was off balance. Thrown with the weight of his own body as he missed Spot’s face. So Spot took his chance. He punched. Spot pushed every emotion into the weight behind his fist as he felt his fist collide with the bones on the man’s face. The man fell, moving with the motion of his tumbling body.

 

Spot stood, watching the man fall to the floor. Gently touching at his lip, he saw his fingers came away red. He spat on the floor next to the man, blood mixing with saliva. He bared his teeth, speaking with all the weight of a punch. “Don’t start what you can’t finish.”

 

Two men rushed over - the bartender and a bouncer, pulling the two men away from one another. The bouncer being the larger of the two men got the job of pulling the man off of the floor. He wrestled him into a standing position, seeing if he was alright.

 

“What the fuck happened?” The bouncer asked, all hard edges and sharp words. He looked at Spot with eyes like knives.

 

“He spiked that girl’s drink,” Spot said, trying to make his voice clear over the blood and spit in his mouth. “I called him out on it. He got violent. So I protected myself.”

 

“That true?” The bartender asked, looking at the man who was struggling to his feet.

 

“Fuck no,” Trent replied, spitting blood. “That fucker started insulting me and my girl so I taught him a lesson.”

 

Spot snorted, trying to look as casual and unassuming he could get with a blood stained face and a bartender gripping his arm like an anchor. He was stuck. But he had fought. He had won, and the thrill was pumping through his veins like a wave. It was like that first hit of a cigarette after you had been left wanting for ages, only to give in and let it consume you.

 

“He’s lying.” The girl in question said. She stood up, sliding off her seat and moving closer to the four men. She pointed at Spot. “That boy came over and said that Trent spiked my drink while I was in the bathroom. Trent got defensive and angry and punched him. So he didn’t have a choice, he had to defend himself from Trent or he’d have gotten beat.”

 

“You fucking whore,” Trent spat, growling as saliva dripped from his mouth. “You lying bitch. You’ll get me in trouble so shut your mouth.”

 

“You’re already in trouble.” The bouncer replied, looking very unimpressed with the events that happened. He looked over at the bartender, who nodded. “And kicked out.”

 

The man started spouting threats at the bouncer, saying that the girl was lying. But even if she was - more than enough people saw him throw the first punch. He started the fight so he had to leave. Rules were rules.

 

“You alright? Want me to call a taxi?” The bartender asked Spot, letting go of his arm. He looked over at the girl, who was looking shaken. “For you as well.”

 

“I’m fine, I’ll make my own way home.” Spot said. He froze. Home wasn’t a place for him. It had never been a place. His parents taught him that. One of the few things they actually taught him. Unwillingly, of course. It wasn’t a home with them. That shitty house wasn’t a home. It was hell.

 

His apartment wasn’t home either. It was just a place where he slept and stored his shit. It wasn’t even _his,_ with two other roommates.

 

No, home was a feeling. Safety. Comfort. Relaxation. Love.

 

Home was Racetrack Higgins.

 

But Spot wasn’t allowed to think that. He banned himself, shutting out any and all emotion that he could. Thinking about it just made the pain worse. That was why he was drowning himself in alcohol and violence. But it wasn’t working. He needed to leave. Go somewhere else.

 

He mumbled a thank you to the bartender as he paid, before chugging the rest of his drink and gathering up his things. Spot froze again. He wouldn’t be allowed into another bar looking like he did. So he headed to the bathroom.

 

It was just as shit as the actual bar. But he was alone, and there was clean water in the sinks. So Spot ignored the weird stains and cracked tiles and tried to wash the blood off his hands and face. It wasn’t too bad. Bruised and bloody knuckles, a split lip, blood nose. Nothing broken. Just bruised. He’d live.

 

Once he was decent enough, he headed down the street to the next bar. He knew there was another one down there, more popular, and not as shit. So he walked. He’d worry about his car tomorrow. That was a problem for later.

 

The air was cool on his beaten body, chilling him down to his bones. He was starting to sober, the air and the water and fight beating the alcohol out of him. He continued to walk. Trying to think about anything _but_ Race. Anything but what happened.

 

He failed.

 

Spot found the bar, a place popular with young people called The Dagger. He sighed once he was inside, the place filled with people who were trying to lose themselves. Spot fit right in. He found an empty stool at the bar, ordered a beer and waited.

 

He kept ordering.

 

When his glass emptied he just ordered a new once, drowning his brain in booze. Hoping he’d kill all those thoughts he didn’t want to be thinking. All those thoughts he needed to deal with.

 

But it wasn’t enough.

 

He needed the thrill of the punch, the kick of a cigarette, something to kill his nerves and sate that itch. So when a drunk looking man went to walk past Spot, he leaned out from his stool, causing the man to crash into his shoulder.

 

“What the fuck man?” He said turning to face him. “Why’d ya do that for?”

 

“I didn’t do nothin’,” The other man exclaimed, jumping to the defensive. “You’re the one in the way!”

 

Spot snorted. “You fuckin’ blind or what? I’m on my fuckin’ stool where I’s supposed to be. Was you supposed to be crashing inta me? No.”

 

“You mouthy fuck, I wasn’t in your fuckin’ way,”

 

“Tell that to my bruised shoulder.”

 

The other man threw a punch. Spot dodged, sliding off his stool to retaliate. He punched back. The started to circle each other, before the other man lunged. Spot ducked, the other man’s fist grazing the side of his head. He stood up, trying to regain his balance. Spot was greeted by a fist colliding with his face. He felt the blood drip from his nose. Snarling, Spot threw his own hits, the man doubling over in pain.

 

The man groped along the bar blindly, for anything to help him gain an edge. With him doubled over in pain, if he didn’t do something then Spot would win. The man grabbed a bottle. Spot saw the bottle of beer swinging towards his head so he ducked. His head swam with the fast movement, and the bottle smashed into his shoulder. He growled.

 

Spot went to move forward, to retaliate, as his body was jerked back. Strong hands gripped his arms, pulling him away from the other man. The other man was the same, stumbling as a bouncer pulled them away from one another.

 

It became a blur after that, the bartender organising way to get the two drunk fighters home. The other man, with his friends; Spot, alone in a cab.

 

It was raining when Spot was kicked outside, with a bottle of beer he hadn’t finished. He sighed and flopped to the ground, miserable. He waited on the curb, sipping at his beer. He was completely trashed at this point, the world swimming with alcohol and pain.

 

He fucked up. He completely and utterly fucked up. His friends hate him, Race hates him, Spot loves him, which makes the hating so much worse. He got drunk, and bruised, and bloody, and beaten and soaked in the rain. But nothing worked. Nothing changed. Spot was still a fuck up with a mouth filled with words left unsaid.

 

The cab arrived, and he stumbled into the backseat. Trying to get out of the rain as fast as possible.

 

“Address?” The cabbie asked, raising an eyebrow at the drunk and bleeding wreck Spot had become. He scrunched up his face, trying to recall the address. Forty five. No, not that. Sixty eight. No. Nine. No. Twelve. No. Twenty seven. No.

 

Thirty six. It was the only number to a house that remained clear in his mind. The only number not hazy and blurred with cheap beer and cheaper fights. He rambled off the address, slumping into the seats.

 

He tried to keep his body as still as possible. So he wouldn’t throw up. He tried to keep his mind still. So he wouldn’t think those thoughts he was trying to ignore.

 

Time was a blur, as were most things. So the journey to the address he rattled off took no time at all. Or maybe it took all the time in the world. Seconds expanding for eons as Spot waited in the back of the cab. So similar to every other cab but so like itself. So similar to a lot of nights Spots lived through. But so completely different.

 

Spot sighed, paying the driver what he hoped was the right amount and tumbling out of the cab. Standing on the pavement, Spot just stared at the building before him. It wasn’t his apartment. It wasn’t his parent’s. Or his brother’s. Or Davey’s home.

 

It was Race’s apartment. The only address he could remember.

 

There was no turning back now, as Spot slowly and carefully made his way to Race’s front door. It took a while, all coordination and dignity gone with the flow of alcohol through his body.

 

He stared at the door. He wanted so badly to knock. To see Race again. But he couldn’t bare the thought of what could happen. Race could yell, scream, insult, threaten. Or, worst of all. He could shut Spot down with all the calmness of a person who knew they were ending it for good. So Spot stood there, slumped on the door.

 

But it was late, well into the morning at this point, and if Spot didn’t go inside he’d end up passing out on the ground. So he knocked, bruised fist pounding on the door. He ignored the dried blood and his aching hands., letting himself feel the pain he deserved. He pushed himself off of the door, swaying where he stood.

 

Race had an apartment to himself, due to his good job and rich family, so they always ended up spending their time there. They didn’t have to worry about Spot’s roommates, or the lack of space his apartment had. It was far away and a hassle to get to, so Spot always went to Races. They had spent so much time there, until that one fight. And Spot got up and left.

 

He sighed, there was no way Race heard the door, and even if he did, there was no way he’d let Spot in. Especially not bloody and drunk off his ass. His gaze wandered, looking at the walls, the roof, the ground, anything but the front door.

 

Spot snapped his head forward - looking around wildly was putting him off balance, and he stumbled over his own feet. He scowled, trying and failing to regain his balance. Staring down at his feet, Spot tried to steel himself and regain his thoughts. Try to regain some sort of sobriety. Just in case somebody saw him. Or if the door opened.

 

The door opened. Spot looked up, and found Race staring him incredulously. He saw his look of surprise and confusion disappear under a hardened gaze. Spot didn’t blame him. It was three in the morning, Spot was drunk and beaten, and they had left off on a very bad note.

 

“What do you want?” Race asked, trying to keep his voice steady. He was scarily calm, and Spot was a little thrown back. With the way their fight ended, Spot didn’t expect to see him so calm about it. But maybe he should’ve. He knows the kind of people they both are. Angry, impulsive, defensive, and shit at emotions. They were both great at shutting things and people out.

 

Spot tried to calm himself as Race did, but the ocean of alcohol flooding his system negated all his efforts. He was drunk and emotional and hurting. Not just because of his injuries. But because of Race. Seeing him after all the shitty things Spot had said. He swayed on his feet, and the words fell out of his mouth like a waterfall. Unstoppable and overwhelming.

  
“Yours was the only address I could remember to tell the taxi driver.”


	2. Chapter 2

Race didn’t know what to say. Spot was a fucking mess. Not to say that Race  _ wasn’t,  _ but Spot was the one who always looked as bad as he felt. He was clearly drunk off his ass - he reeked of alcohol and was littered with fresh bruises blooming underneath his skin. His lip was split open, and dried blood adorned the lower half of his face. He hadn’t cared to clean himself up. Or maybe he was too drunk. Or both.

 

Spot didn’t know how to handle emotions so he resorted to anger. And after what happened between them there was no doubt he was going to be emotional and angry. So he got drunk and got into fights. One of his vices. He had calmed down as he got older, but that rage and anger was fast from dying. He was an ever burning forest fire. 

 

But he wasn’t the only one. Race didn’t leave the fight okay. After the things they said, neither of them did. 

 

He looked almost pitiful. Spot’s hair was still damp from the rain, long strands falling into his eyes. His head was downturned, like an animal that knew it did wrong, or a child apologising for doing something dumb. 

 

“I’ll just go,” Spot slurred, waving his hand vaguely behind him. “I shouldn’t have come.”

 

Spot turned on his heel, body swaying with the movement. He stumbled, moving his feet to try and regain his balance. If it weren’t for the circumstances, Race would have laughed as Spot tried to stumble his way away from him.

 

Race sighed. He wasn’t pleased with Spot right now, things had gone very wrong and if they wanted things to be good again they’d have to have a very long and uncomfortable chat about emotions. But just because he was mad, it doesn’t mean he wanted to turn Spot away. He was a mess and had no hope of taking care of himself. He needed Race’s help. 

 

Plus, Race still loved him, even if he wasn’t happy with admitting that right now. 

 

“Wait,” He said, stepping out of the doorway to watch Spot. He stopped, turning around with another drunken sway of his body. Race sighed. “Get in here.”

 

Spot’s brow furrowed, face scrunching up in confusion. Stumbling over his own feet, Spot made his way back to Race. “Why? Shouldn’t ya hate me?”

 

“You’re drunk.” Race said simply, with finality. “And you can’t take care of yourself. So I’m not gonna let ya fend for yourself when you’re like this.”

 

Spot snorted, his drunken body moving with the motion of the snort. “I can take care of me self jus’ fine.”

 

Race just raised an eyebrow, stepping out of the doorway so Spot could enter. He would. They both knew he would. They would both grumble and complain, making smart comments at the other, but they would go along with it. They were the only person the other trusted to see them that vulnerable. “Is that how you got covered in blood? Takin’ care of yourself?”

 

“You should see the other guys,” Spot said with a smirk, all weight of the motion counteracted with the slowed stumble of his movements, and the blood drying on his person. He slouched his way into the apartment, knowing where to go despite his inebriated state. Race locked the door behind them, throwing his keys on the nearest surface. 

 

He sighed. Spot had been fighting again. Multiple people, if Spot spoke right, and Race was hearing correctly. No matter who he had been fighting and why, it was all over now and Race had to be there to clean up the mess. At one point he didn’t mind. He knew Spot had been through some real shit, and handled emotions with anger. So fights happened. Race had even learned first aid, so he could clean Spot up as God knows he wouldn’t do it himself. 

 

He thought Spot was over it. That he was getting better. Maybe he was. Maybe Spot was improving but their fight sent all their efforts down the drain. Helping Spot deal with issues was like walking a tightrope. One wrong move and you were falling. 

 

Race shook himself out of it. He was just bitter from residual anger. Anger that hadn’t left after they had yelled. It simmered, low underneath his ribcage. 

 

“C’mon.” Race said, heading to the bathroom. “We need to clean that blood off.”

 

“I can do that me self,” Spot slurred, continuing the train of thought that he was fine and able to take care of himself. Race wasn’t sure if it was the alcohol speaking or just Spot being stubborn. 

 

“No, ya can’t,” Race replied, turning to grab Spot’s wrist. He made sure not to grab too tight, as to trap him, but just tight enough that he could lead him to where he needed to go. He took Spot to the bathroom, to clean out his wounds and maybe wash off the smell of alcohol. He heard Spot grumble under his breath, but he didn’t protest or pull away from Race’s hand.

 

They entered the too small bathroom, Race ordering Spot to sit down on the edge of the bath/shower. The light was clearer and brighter than that of his entrance way, and it only just hit Race how awful Spot looked. 

 

He had a split lip, blood dripping from his nose, bloody knuckles, bags under his eyes, and he was on his way to being soaking wet. And that was just what Race could see.

 

“Jesus, Spot,” He said, looking closer at the blood on his face. There seemed to be a lot of it, but it didn’t seem like the wounds were that bad. Spot’s had worse. “You look like shit.”

 

“Wow, Racey boy, tell me what ya really feel,” Spot slurred back, swaying slightly where he sat. He smiled, then winced and touched at his split lip. 

 

“Don’t touch,” Race said, giving Spot a once over with his eyes. It looked bad, but it was all stuff that Race could treat. He turned to his medicine cabinet, removing all the supplies that he’d need. All the stuff he bought for Spot. 

 

“Why?” Spot asked, no longer wincing but starting to glare at Race. 

 

“So I can clean the wound,” Race said, putting on a pair of medical gloves. He supposed it must look really weird that he has them in his bathroom, but with the injuries Spot got in fights, and the injuries he got doing dumb things, they need it. “So sit still and let me work.”

 

Normally Spot would listen to his request, sitting and letting Race do his work. But tonight Spot was drunk. And drunk Spot didn’t like to listen to people. As soon as Race neared his face with a damp cloth, Spot leant away, making a noise of protest.

 

“I need to clean away the blood, Spot.” Race said calmly, hoping to get Spot to understand. “You know the drill.”

 

Pulling a face, Spot stared Race down as he thought. “But you hate me. Why’re you takin’ care of me if ya hate me?”

 

Race fought the urge to look down at his feet and sigh. Instead he continued to stare back at Spot, eyes connecting. “I don’t hate you. I’m still mad but I don’t hate you enough to let you stay like this. Can I clean your wounds now?”

 

Spot was silent for a second before nodding, his head bobbing with all the gracefulness of a drunk deer. He leaned back towards Race.

 

Race started his task, wiping away as much drying blood as he could. It was easy to clean now that Spot wasn’t leaning away from him. The blood didn’t go too far, mostly covering his mouth. He was careful, as not to hurt Spot any further, who had winced as the cloth touched his split lip. He said he was still mad, and he was, but Race couldn’t let Spot leave. He couldn’t ignore his wounds. Race would take care of him as he had many times before. 

 

“Hey Race,” Spot said, looking up at his kind of boyfriend from beneath the blood soaked cloth. Race removed it and stared down at the man. His hand hovered. The drying blood was smeared lightly across his face, and the wounds were clear, but if you had the patience to see past it, Spot was handsome. Almost pretty. Although, he always objected to that description. He wasn’t pretty like a girl. He wasn’t anything. 

 

“I can’t clean ya face if you talk Spot,” Race said, trying to keep his voice light. There was a high chance Spot wouldn’t remember a lot of tonight, but on the off chance he does, Race didn’t want to seem like a complete douche. They may have fought, but Race wasn’t  _ that _ much of an asshole that he left Spot out in the cold while wet and covered in blood. 

 

“But it’s important,” Spot said, grabbing at the hand Race held the cloth with and lowering it. “I jus’ remembered and I need ta say it.”

 

“If I let ya say it will you let me clean your wounds in peace?” Race asked, offering Spot a deal. Even with a drunken not-so-boyfriend Race could never say no to a deal. 

 

Spot nodded.

 

“Then let's have it,” Race said, crossing his arms. 

 

“Thank you,” Spot said, with finality. “For lettin’ me inside.”

 

Race blinked, Spot’s comment throwing him off his beat. He didn’t know what the other man would say - make a comment about a fight, the alcohol, the numerous times they had been in this position - but not thank you. Especially after their yelling match. It got personal, both men knowing exactly where to throw their insults. So this was a shock. Especially as Spot seemed to be riding the coattails of ‘Angry Spot’. 

 

“You’re welcome,” He replied, after a pause. “Can I finish now?”

 

Spot nodded again, and kept his mouth shut as promised as Race kept working. He started with the face, washing away the blood and cleaning the wounds as best he could with his wash cloth, until he conceded that he would need to put the wound under running water. 

 

“I need to wash your face with water,” Race said, rinsing the cloth and putting it aside. “If you give me your wallet, keys, and phone I can put your face under the showerhead.”

 

Spot started to stand - to remove the things from his pockets, but lost his balance, stumbling over his feet in the small space. Race grabbed at Spot’s shoulders, trying to keep him steady before he face planted into either Race or the floor. Spot grabbed back, steadying himself somewhat.

 

“You got it?” Race asked, looking at Spot, who seemed to appear drunker by the minute. He dug about in various pockets, and pulled out his wallet, phone, keys, and headphones. Handing them over, Spot smiled slightly, before stepping into the tub. Race put his things by the side of the sink - the closest safe surface. “Do you wanna take off your jacket? Or just stick your whole head under the water?”

 

Spot mumbled  reply, and Race wasn’t too sure what it was, but Spot shrugged himself out of his jacket. He handed it over, before looking down and frowning. “I’m still wearing shoes.”

 

“Wanna take those off, man?” Race asked, patiently. He was taking his time with Spot. He knew how he got, and was used to dealing with him. Especially drunk Spot, who didn’t like following instructions all that much.

 

Spot nodded, and braced himself on the wall as he lifted up a foot to remove the shoe. He started to wobble, so Race gripped his arm again, trying to keep him steady. 

 

“Couldn’t keep your hands off me, huh?” Spot asked, trying his hardest to smirk. Race just snorted. Spot got flirty when he was drunk, but only when they were alone or with very close friends. It was a privilege to see it. But apparently the very wasted Spot had forgotten they weren’t even on speaking terms an hour ago. 

 

“Something like that,” He replied, watching Spot carefully as he stripped. Spot removed his shoes, socks, and jacket, before trying to remove his shirt. Race stopped him, noticing rips in the shoulder of his shirt. 

 

“What’re these Spot?” He asked, trying to get in closer for a better look. 

 

“Oh. Holes.” Spot replied, with all the finality of a drunk person. 

 

Race sighed. “From what?”

 

“Prob’ly that dude who smashed a bottle on me,” Spot said, nodding, almost smiling at the memory. 

 

‘What?” Race exclaimed, shocked not at the notion that someone smashed glass on Spot, but on the fact he was so far gone he didn’t seem to feel it or be bothered by it. The last time Spot got glass in his skin it was one of the first things he said, no matter the alcohol in his system. “Fuckin’ hell. Get your shirt off.”

 

All of the drunken flirting and casual relaxation slipped from Spot’s face at Race’s sudden sense of urgency. “You’re worried for me. Why? We fought.”

 

“Why?” Race sputtered, almost shocked at Spot’s question. Even drunk off his ass he should be able to handle the idea that Race was taking care of Spot because he wasn’t a complete asshole. Because Spot couldn’t take care of himself. Because deep down he still loved the wasted mess that was his maybe but not quite boyfriend. “Because you’ve got glass in your shoulder ya dick! Because I might be kind of an ass but I’m not a total douchebag!”

 

“You’re bein’ too nice ta me,” Spot said, brow thoroughly furrowed. He was moving out of ‘Angry Spot’ territory, and seemed to be venturing into the domain of ‘Confused Because I Don’t Deserve Care Spot’. He got like that a lot. More so in the past than now, but it still surfaced. With a childhood and a family as shit as Spot’s, he got used to doing everything himself. He didn’t get help. He didn’t need it. He didn’t want it. So when he got care and offers of help he didn’t know what to do with it. At least he wasn’t refusing it outright. He wasn’t  _ that  _ drunk. 

 

“Do you want me to yell at ya?” Race asked, unsure if he was being serious himself. “Because I’m getting real tired of yellin’ at ya, Spot.”

 

“I jus’ figured that since we yelled and fought and shit you wouldn’t want to help me no more,” Spot slurred out, blinking slowly. “Since I was a real dick and junk.”

 

“I was a real dick too,” Race replied, pushing down the blooming adoration that was growing inside his ribcage. He couldn’t forgive Spot just because he admitted he was being a dick. Their words were too harsh for that. “So I think we’re even. Can I clean you up now? For real this time?”

 

“Fine,” Spot said, after a weighty pause. Race sighed - he was doing an awful lot of that tonight - and continued with cleaning more blood and wounds after Spot got his shirt off. Spot faced the wall, moving every time Race asked him too, cleaning away the blood so he could remove any leftover glass shards embedded in his skin. 

 

There wasn’t that many, thank God, just lots of little cuts and scrapes. Race assumed the man Spot was fighting was just as drunk as he was. 

 

As soon as he got the wounds as clean as he could get them, Race paused. There was no way he could clean the cuts out with water without completely soaking Spot. The man in question was too drunk to shower himself, he’d have to do that tomorrow, so it’d have to be up to Race to make sure Spot stood in the water long enough to clean them out. 

 

“Do you think you can get ya pants off?” Race asked, looking over the half naked Spot standing in the shower. Without all the dried blood he didn’t look a bad as he did before, but the clean skin just make his actual injuries look worse. His nose was slightly swollen, he was covered in cuts and bruises, plus his yet to be clean knuckles looked like he’d been punching a brick wall. 

 

“Didn’t know you were so eager for make up sex, Race, if I’da known, I’da shown up sooner,” Spot said with a smirk, undoing the button on his jeans. Race rolled his eyes. ‘Flirty Spot’ was back. But before he knew it ‘Confused Spot’ would be back to replace him. When Spot was drunk and didn’t care, he was a bit all over the place. 

 

“We’ve got a long way to go before we’re back there, hot shot,” Race said, waiting to see if Spot could keep his balance. “It’s so you can shower, dumbass.”

 

“Planning to join me, huh?” Spot asked, shoving his pants down towards his ankles. “I’m flattered.”

 

Race snorted. “I think you’re a bit too drunk and injured for that, idiot.”

 

Spot (with a bit of help from Race) managed to get his jeans off, and threw them onto his other piled of clothes. Before he could remove his underwear and do something they’d both regret, Race turned on the shower. Spot was damp already, so it’s not like it was a real hassle. 

 

He kept him there for a while, under the gentle water, washing out his wounds. He started to clean Spot’s hands as he stood there, carefully rinsing away the blood from his knuckles. Spot started complaining, and so Race turned off the shower. He fought back the urge not to laugh, Spot’s hair was in his face, and if it weren’t for the slightly serious situation, he’d have laughed at him. 

 

“Do you think ya can dry yourself?” Race asked. “I need to go get you some dry clothes.”

 

Spot snorted. “Of course.”

 

After removing his gloves, Race padded through his dark apartment to his room, where he knew Spot had a few drawers full of clothes. He stared at this one particular drawer, tapping at his fingers. Spot was there so often he had multiple drawers, constantly being replenished with new clothes with the frequencies of Spot’s visits. It was a miracle there was anything left in his own apartment. Race sighed. 

 

Everytime he saw something of Spot’s the fight just rushed back over him in a wave. It was their biggest to date. 

 

And the day had been going so well by that point. They both had the weekend off, and ended up spending the weekend together doing not much but enjoy each other’s company. But then the conversation turned with one wrong sentence.

 

_ “If we lived together we’d be at each other’s throats all the time - always fighting and junk. Hell, we’re like that now. At least this way I won’t get tired of ya.” _

  
  


_ “The fuck does that mean? You’re gettin’ fuckin’ sick of me is that it?” _

 

_ “Well you gotta admit you can be a bit much to handle.” _

  
  


The wrong words coming out in the wrong way hitting just where they weren’t meant to. Moving in together was a touchy subject, and they tended not to talk about it. But Race had been thinking about it more and more. And then they started talking about roommates and Spot made that fucking comment. And it escalated. 

  
  


_ “Me? What about you? You’re the one who’s always angry, always gettin’ into fights - you’re not exactly a ray of sunshine.” _

 

_ “It’s part of me sparklin’ personality. It’s who I am. I thought you liked that ‘bout me. At least I’m not the one who thinks blowin’ money at the races is the best way ta spend a fuckin’ date!” _

  
  


Physically shaking his head, Race forced himself out of that thought. He couldn’t go over the fight again, he couldn’t take it. After a week straight of nothing but that fight, those words, running through his mind he was driving himself insane. And that was only the beginning. It got worse.

 

Grabbing a pair of clean underwear and some loose clothes, he headed back to the bathroom. Hopefully Spot hadn’t managed to make a mess of himself while he was gone. 

 

He found Spot standing in the middle of the room loosely holding a towel around his waist. He seemed to have dried himself somewhat, his skin didn’t appear to be wet and his hair wasn’t dripping. 

 

“Here,” Race said, holding out the clean underwear he had gotten for Spot. He really just wanted all the hassle over with so he didn’t have to think about it. Not just tonight, with a very drunk Spot bouncing from one emotion to another, but the whole fight. The whole week of shit. “Put these on.”

 

Spot reached out to grab the underwear with one hand, and dropped the towel with the other. He frowned, glaring down at the towel like it had insulted his dog. Race averted his gaze. It didn’t feel right to look. Not when they technically weren’t a couple any more. “Can you do it yourself?”

 

“‘Course. I’m not an invalid,” Spot replied, and Race could hear the sound of fabric moving, se he assumed Spot was sober enough to put on clothes.

 

“Yeah, but you’re fuckin’ drunk,”Race replied, garnering a snort from Spot. 

 

“Am not,” He got in reply.

 

“I’m sorry, where have you been the past half hour?” Race said, hovering anxiously as he stood faced away from Spot. If he slipped and fell, he didn’t know how he’d cope. “You’re wasted.”

 

“I’m not  _ that  _ wasted,” Spot scoffed, and this time it was Race’s turn to snort. “I managed to get my underwear on.”

 

With that comment, Race assumed it was safe to turn. And as Spot had said, he did manage to get his underwear on without hurting himself. “Do you think you can put pants on Mr. ‘I’m not drunk’?”

 

“Duh,” Spot replied, looking confident, or as confident as a drunk person could look. So Race handed over the sweatpants he had got for Spot, and slung his shirt over his shoulder for later. He still needed to patch up the wounds he could before putting Spot to sleep. 

 

Spot’s face hardened with determination, as he tried to set up everything so he could put on pants without falling over. He was going fine until he was working the pants over his legs, where he started to wobble. Knowing he’d never ask for help, Race simply put a hand on Spot’s shoulder. He kept him steady, weighing him down so Spot could dress in peace. He knew if he offered help Spot would get confused again, or even angry, and Race didn’t know what he wanted less.

 

It was getting later by the minute, and without anything to do, Race felt his eyelids start to droop. He was always a tired person, and this stint at three in the morning would not help. 

 

“Go to the kitchen, I’ll patch you up there.” Race said, gesturing out to the door. There was no space in his tiny bathroom not covered by things or water, and so he’d have to move everything out. 

 

Spot nodded, before heading away, bare feet padding against the cool floor. Race let out a heavy breath. When he was near Spot everything was heavier. There was more weight to every movement, every word, every breath, and Race didn’t know if he could handle it. He was too tired to process his own thoughts, let alone Spot or anything related to the man. He was so complicated and complex, and Race didn’t have the time to sort through all of Spot’s pieces. That was a task for another day. Right now he needed to clean up the bathroom.

 

He decided on dumping all the wet towels and clothes into the tub at the bottom of the shower, figuring he can do a laundry run when he doesn’t feel like he’s about to fall asleep any second. Race grabbed his first aid kit, and followed Spot. 

 

They were both quieter after that. Race worked slowly, cleaning the wounds a third time before applying antiseptic cream and some form of bandage to cover it up. Hopefully Spot would be okay. He didn’t think he could handle a trip to the hospital for a broken nose or an infected cut. 

 

When Spot was all patched up, it all went silent. There was more weight in the air. 

 

“I’m sorry Race,” Spot said, breaking through the silence like a rock through a window. “For all of it. The comments, the fights, the turnin’ up on ya doorstep like a bad romance movie your mother watches.”

 

It was getting heavy again. Spot finally drunk enough and vulnerable enough to voice those things he had been ignoring for weeks and Race was trying his hardest not to think about. Race’s chest tightened. He couldn’t deal with it. Not now. Too much had been placed on him all at once. 

 

“Have you been watchin’ rom coms without me Spot Conlon?” Race asked, attempting to cover his feelings with humour just as Spot did with anger. “Who knew you were a romantic.”

 

“You bring it outta me,” Spot replied, grinning as Race handed him his shirt. Race let out a breath, Spot didn’t seem to notice the deflection, either that or he was too drunk to care. 

 

“I’m holding that against you,” he snarked back, falling too easily into their familiar banter. He wasn’t going to use it against him and they both knew it.  “The mighty Spot Conlon watches shitty rom coms in his spare time.”

 

“Only for you,” Spot, said with the weighty truth of a person too drunk to lie. Race paused, lips tugging at a small smile. He started to move away from Spot, garnering a confused frown from the man.

 

“You stay here, I gotta get a few things,” He said, soothing Spot’s concern. He grabbed a bucket from the cupboard, just in case Spot needed to throw up in the night. He didn’t want to face the consequences if Spot didn’t make it to the toilet. Grabbing a hand towel as an afterthought, Race headed back to the kitchen to get the ice pack he knew he had in the freezer somewhere. With all he needed to deal with Spot, he found himself standing in front of the man not saying anything. 

 

He could feel the simmering anger he once felt melting away, being replaced with worry and concern. Race frowned at himself. He couldn’t just let it go. The things they said. 

 

Tomorrow. They could deal with it tomorrow. And they would. They need it. As much as they both dreaded the conversation, it needs to happen. If they bottle up shit like this then they’ll just fight again later. Spot won’t say anything about things he  _ should  _ talk about, Race will try to breach the subject, Spot will get angry, Race will get frustrated, the situation will escalate, and one of them will walk out. 

 

They need to talk about it. Just not tonight. 

 

“It’s time for sleep I think,” Race said quietly. Spot nodded, glancing at the couch out of the corner of his eye. 

 

Now came the matter of where to put Spot. There was the couch, where one of them normally  went when they fought during the night. They had the spare blankets and pillows for it. But Race didn’t think he could do it. Spot needed someone to take care of him. Plus, he had actually apologised. Sure he was drunk as all hell, but it counted for something. He sighed. 

 

“If you puke in my bed I’ll kill ya,” Race said, standing up and looking at Spot expectantly. 

 

Race watched Spot as the realisation hit him. His eyes widened and his mouth gaped open. With his inhibitions completely lowered, Spot had lost his ability to poker face. Which was part of the reason he liked to trick people into thinking he had drunk more than he had. Gave him the upper hand in cards if they thought he was too drunk to focus his facial expressions.

 

Race hid his own expression, putting on a mask for the drunk Spot. There was a chance that Spot wouldn’t remember it, but he felt he had to. They hadn’t seen each other in so long, Race needed to appear put together. Even if he wasn’t.  _ Especially  _ if he wasn’t. They were going to sleep in the same bed. They’d do nothing but sleep, on opposite sides of the bed, but it wasn’t the couch. Race was too much of a sap to let Spot stay there. He silently cursed himself. 

 

Spot’s look morphed to reveal a smile. A genuine one. Not a smirk as Spot was getting known for, but a smile. It was small, and could easily be overlooked, but it was true. It was real. 

 

“If I puke in your bed I’ll save ya the trouble,” Spot snarked back, the slur slowly fading from his words. He got up, and headed towards the bedroom like it was an instinct. It probably was at this point. Turning off the lights, Race followed him. He stared at Spot, watching him head towards his side of the bed. 

 

Race wasn’t sure when exactly it had become  _ Spot’s.  _ But it had. Spot had merged his way into Race’s life inch by inch, slowly taking over things until he could no longer tell what was actually his anymore. But he didn’t mind. He never minded. It became comforting to see a hoodie, or a toothbrush, or a book, or  _ anything _ that belonged to Spot. A subtle reminder that he was part of his life. 

 

Race wasn’t sure where they stood anymore. They both stood there, silently, waiting for the other to make the first move. 

 

“Here,” Race said, kneeling on the bed and holding out the bucket with the ice pack inside. Spot was silent as he leant over the bed to take it, nodding to give some sort of reaction. He pulled out the ice pack wrapped in cloth and put it on his bedside table. Spot placed the bucket at his feet, and stared at the kneeling Race. 

 

Race hopped on the bed completely, staring at the other man. “You’re allowed to get into the bed, Spot.”

 

Spot silently hopped onto the bed, as far away from Race as he could be. Race ignored the tightening in his chest. They slid under the covers together, Spot putting the ice pack over his swollen nose as Race turned out the light.

 

He was tense, every muscle in his body itching to reach out and grab ahold, to touch, to brush his skin against Spot’s. But he couldn’t. He wouldn’t. Race curled tighter into a ball, his back to Spot. Letting him sleep in his bed was a bad idea. He couldn’t take it. They only slept this far apart when they were fighting, and Race didn’t want another reminder of how bad it got. He sighed.

  
Squeezing his eyes shut, Race tried to shut the world out and drift back to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only one chapter left look at me go
> 
> Check out my [tumblr](http://www.themeraldgraves.tumblr.com) if you feel so inclined


	3. Chapter 3

Spot was miserable. But it was a different type of miserable than the one he was getting used to. Before it was empty sadness. The kind that scooped out your insides and left you feeling hollow and awful. Now, it was the uncomfortable kind of miserable. He wasn’t sure how to describe it, he knew it wasn’t right. It churned at his gut and his mind, his insides a whirlpool of unsettled and unidentifiable feeling. 

 

Burrowing further into the blankets, Spot pulled a face as he was dragged out of the realm of sleep. He didn't want to wake up. The growing headache that pounded at his skull wasn't helping either. He made a slight whine in the back of his throat. He knew the hangover was coming, but he drank anyway. He needed the pain and the misery that he thought he deserved. Drinking was the easiest way to achieve that. 

 

He was probably killing his liver with every break up and break down, but he had to admit that at least it wasn't his lungs anymore. Drowning his emotions with the steady flow of alcohol not only sated the feelings he didn't want to be feeling, but the never ending itch to smoke. It had taken a lot of time and a lot of yelling from Race, but Spot had eventually quit. If he started again Race would kick his ass twice over. And Spot didn't think he could handle another argument.

 

Spot wanted to stay curled up in Race’s bed forever, pressing his face into the soft sheets instead of facing the reality of what he did, and what he had to face next. The sheets still smelt faintly of Race, and Spot wanted nothing more than to inhale and let the scent fill his lungs. But it wasn't his place. He felt guilty.  Plus, he really needed to piss. 

 

Dragging himself to a sitting position, Spot took a moment to gather himself. His head was swimming, his stomach was starting to turn - plus, he hurt all over. He ran his hand through his hair, pulling a face at how gross he felt. He remembers getting into the shower, but that was to wash off the blood and stench of alcohol more than anything. Spot didn’t feel clean. 

 

He swung his legs out of the bed, Spot took a deep breath to settle his stomach and head. His wounds weren’t that bad - but it might be that the hangover was far worse and the wounds weren’t that bad in comparison. Or maybe he just hadn’t done anything to provoke it yet. Spot sighed. Today was going to be interesting that was for sure. And that was even without Race in the next room. The wooden floor was cool underneath his bare feet, and Spot relaxed a little at the feel of it against his skin. 

 

The trip to the bathroom took longer than Spot liked to admit. Any fast movement and his head or his stomach started to churn uncomfortably, and he didn’t want to make himself feel any worse than he already did. Plus, Race was just in the other room, and he didn’t want to alert him to his presence any more than the opening of doors already did. 

 

Shutting the bathroom door, Spot sighed as the tiles were cool under his feet. Plus - he was truly alone. It was just him. A space for just him and his bursting bladder. Spot peed with all the satisfaction of a person who had been holding it for a really long time. 

 

Turning away from the toilet to the tiny sink on the wall Spot felt his feet slip out from underneath him. He stumbled to regain his balance and ended up slumped against the bathroom wall. He slid down to the floor, and sat there on the tiles not moving. This was either one killer hangover, or he was still drunk. Either way, Spot was not in the best position. 

 

Spot didn’t want to be in the position he was in. He was hungover, in pain, slumped on the floor of a bathroom with his maybe not boyfriend in the next room. He had no idea what to call Race anymore. He had made a comment he shouldn’t have, Race wasn’t very happy with that, Spot got angry, Race got angry, and Spot walked out. 

 

When Spot didn’t know how to handle his emotions, he got mad. It was a safe emotion that he knew how to handle. But others didn’t.  Others avoided him, lest he turn that anger on them. They stayed out of his way. But not Race. Never Race. He edged his way into Spot’s life so gradually that he barely noticed how much he cared until he did. Race learnt how to handle Spot when he was angry. He could calm him down, but only when he wanted to. And on that night Race was too occupied being angry himself to calm down the defensive anger rising in Spot.

 

He wanted to fix what he did, but had zero idea how. He couldn’t take back the comment that started it, the anger he directed at Race, the shit he said. He had to move on and fix it.  _ But he didn’t know how. _ So he lounged around feeling miserable getting drunk until he started feeling the itch to go out and do something. Hence the fighting. 

 

After a moment on the floor feeling miserable and ashamed of himself Spot gathered himself up from the floor to wash his hands. Heading back to bed, Spot hoped Race hadn’t heard him fall over in the bathroom. He wouldn’t hear the end of it. Especially after the night he had. 

 

Spot slumped over in bed, burying himself under the covers once more. If the world was kind to him (which it rarely was), he would able to fall asleep again and sleep away the day. But the world wasn’t kind to him at this particular moment. The faint noises of Race in the other room got fainter and fainter, until the sound of footsteps got louder and louder. Spot closed his eyes and pretended to sleep. He didn’t think he was capable of interacting with Race. So it was either feign sleep or climb out the window and escape. 

 

The door creaked open, and Spot could only assume that Race had entered the room. He fought off every urge to tense up, all his muscles tightening and his gut clenching with the presence of Race behind him. Spot tried to relax, and fake sleep as best he could. Growing up in the house he did, you got pretty good at faking sleep. But Race could always tell. 

 

“I know you’re awake Spot.” He heard Race say, Spot not moving from his position curled up under the blankets. 

 

“No, ‘m not.” Spot mumbled in reply. It was childish, but he felt like shit too much to care. 

 

He heard Race give a small snort. They had spent so much time in a bed together they both knew when the other was faking sleep. And they both knew it. 

 

Refusing to turn over and look at him, Spot had no idea how Race looked - if he was tired, angry, upset, stressed or a horrible combination of them all.

 

“I heard you get up to piss, ya bum.” Spot did tense at that, hoping Race wouldn’t say anything about his fall he could most likely hear from the kitchen. There were some things a man had to do in peace and falling in a bathroom was one of them.

 

“Here,” Race said, moving closer to the bedside table. Spot could feel him getting closer and tensed further, before he realised and forced himself to relax. “ Painkillers.”

 

There was a  _ clink _ of glass on wood, and Spot assumed he put a glass of water on his bedside table. He hesitated, his body still half tensed and curled into a ball under the covers. Spot needed painkillers, he knew that, but he didn’t want to look at Race. He didn’t want to face what he did and what they had or rather - didn’t have anymore. But his head hurt too much to stay under the covers moping. 

 

Pushing the covers off of himself, Spot sat up and immediately looked over at the bedside table, avoiding Race’s gaze, who was now sitting on the end of the bed. He felt the mattress dip underneath his weight, and Spot tried to ignore it as much as possible without seeming like a total douchebag. 

 

Grabbing the packet of painkillers, Spot removed a couple and threw them into his mouth, after following with the entire glass of water. The painkillers went down easy, he didn’t need that much water, but his head might thank him for it. Plus, it was an easy excuse not to talk. Spot wanted to put off the dreaded upcoming conversation as long as possible, even if he knew it was inevitable.

 

Spot drained his glass and put it on the bedside table, swinging his legs out of bed. He bowed his head, and peeked at Race out of the corner of his eye. He looked exhausted, his deep bags under his eyes and messy hair. It didn’t seem like Race had been getting any sleep. Spot showing up on doorstep in the middle of the night probably didn’t help. In all honesty, Spot thought it made it worse. 

 

“We need to talk, Spot.” Race said quietly, looking over at the hungover boy next to him. He sounded as defeated as he looked. 

 

Spot was quiet, the room thick with the heavy weight of the silence between them. He replied with the hang of his head. “Yeah.”

 

Neither one of the boys said anything, holding the silence between them like they were cradling a star in their hands. Something sacred. Something to be protected. Something you didn’t want to break. If they said anything, let so much as a whisper cross their lips, then everything would shatter.

 

Spot didn’t know what to do. He didn’t know what to say. He didn’t know _ if _ he should say anything at all. He was at a loss. 

 

“Not yet,” Race said, his voice barely above a whisper. He turned to look at Spot. He looked back. The moment was broken, glass shattering with gentle words. But a new one was created in it’s place. No longer one of silence, but one of gentle words and indescribable looks. Spot wanted to hold that moment forever. He’d take anything over what the moment turned to the second he opened his mouth. 

 

Spot made a noise in his mouth, a gentle ‘hmm’ as he furrowed his brow at Race. 

 

“We won’t talk yet,” Race clarified, gesturing vaguely towards the door. “You need food. And a shower. You’re a fuckin’ wreck.”

 

Spot snorted. He had no idea what he looked like, be he imagined he looked as shit as he felt. He was wreck when he was hungover, and the wounds from his fights with strange drunk men in bars didn’t help. He saw the bandages on his hands had started to come off, and he imagined the one on his back was the same. Spot didn’t even want to start thinking about his face. “You should see the other guy.”

 

He saw the corner of Race’s mouth twitch upwards. The hint of a smile he didn’t want. Spot always said that same dumb comment when he fought. Race always found it amusing. More from the fact it was  _ Spot _ making the dumb joke than the actual joke itself. Usually Race was the one making stupid jokes. When Spot did it felt like victory. 

 

“Come on,” Race started, pushing off from the bed. “I’ll put on some toast.”

 

He left the room, Spot following him with his eyes before actually following. He took his time getting up, trying not to upset his stomach. He knew it was coming, but he was trying to put it off for as long as possible. 

 

Race’s kitchen was fucking tiny, for lack of a better phrase. It had everything he needed to be a surprisingly good cook, but it lacked the space for more than one person. Two if you didn’t mind smacking into each other at every turn. 

 

Spot sat at the bench, letting himself collapse. He didn’t want to move anymore. It required energy he did not have. So he watched Race. He liked watching him in the kitchen - not that he’d admit it. He seemed at home there. Race dug through his pantry for the loaf of bread - for a guy who liked cooking you’d think he’d have a neater kitchen. You’d be wrong. It was a mess, but somehow Race knew where everything was. 

 

He shoved slices of bread into the toaster before turning to dig through his many cluttered cupboards. He pulled out a cutting board and a two plates placing them on the bench in between them. “Butter I’m assuming?”

 

Spot nodded, still wanting to hold the quiet between them. He had broken moments between them far too many times. He didn’t want to do it again. 

 

“I’d ask you if you want coffee but I think the answer is no,” Race said smirking. Spot felt his heart jump. He loved that smirk. He had seen it so many times he had lost count, but it never got old. He never got sick of seeing Race smile in that asshole-ish way of his. He smiled back, letting the corner of his mouth curve upwards. 

 

Race busied himself with making coffee, and pouring a large glass of water for Spot. After everything that happened, he was still taking care of him. Something in Spot’s gut churned. He wasn’t sure if it was the hangover or the odd feeling of someone taking care of him  _ just because.  _ Probably both. 

 

He mumbled a thanks as Race handed him the water, and started sipping at it simply for something to do. The weight of the talk they needed to have was still hanging over their heads and Spot didn’t want to deal with it. He wanted to shut down. To run. To hide. To smoke. To drink. 

 

_ To escape.  _

 

But he couldn’t. He owed Race that much. He knew it wasn’t entirely  _ his _ fault - Race had said his fair share of shit. But Spot was the one who walked out and didn’t say anything for a week. He felt guilty. It chained itself to his chest, locking onto his ribs and holding him down until he could deal with it. But he didn’t know how. 

 

Spot could fight, argue, spit, yell, insult and swear but he didn’t know how to apologise. He never got taught how. How to say sorry and actually mean it. His parents never did. So when they forced him to apologise for being a ‘piece of shit’ or a ‘waste of fuckin’ space’ he never meant it. They didn’t deserve it. 

 

But Race.

 

Race deserved the genuine apology he felt expanding within his chest. That ‘sorry’ waiting to get out. But he didn’t know how. He deserved all the genuine emotion Spot could give. 

 

The stench of coffee hit Spot like a brick wall, forcing him out of the train of thought he was following. It churned his stomach, the contents thrashing his insides. 

 

Putting down his glass he abandoned the kitchen without a second thought. He hurried down the hall to where he knew the toilet would be waiting. Spot dropped to his knees, clutching at the bowl of the toilet as he threw up. 

 

_ I probably deserve this _ , he thought,  _ after all the shit I caused.  _ It came out in spurts, Spot’s stomach revolting against him. He grimaced, dropping to the floor once it had settled. He grabbed at the toilet paper, ripping some off and quickly wiping his mouth. If he cleaned himself up, maybe Race wouldn’t say anything. Maybe Race wouldn’t know.

 

Who was he kidding, Race always knew. Spot despised being vulnerable, hated people knowing he was sick, or hungover, or  _ actually had feelings.  _ So he tried to hide it. Deal with quickly, efficiently, and by himself. But Race  _ always  _ figured it out. And he never held it against him. Spot loved him for it. 

 

Spot quickly flushed and rinsed his mouth out with the tap water, hoping the foul taste of vomit would leave. Sighing at himself, he tried to make his way back to the kitchen as nonchalantly as possible. Race was still at the bench when Spot got back, sipping at his coffee. He raised an eyebrow, but didn’t say anything as Spot scowled at him. 

 

Spot sat at the same stool as before, holding on to his glass of water simply to have something for his hands to do. Race opened his mouth to speak, but was interrupted by the toast popping. Letting out a breath of relief, Spot watched Race busy himself with the toast. He held the pieces gingerly in his hand, trying not to burn himself as he moved the toast to the cutting board. Taking a quick sip of his coffee, he buttered both pieces. One he handed to Spot, the other he added strawberry jam, before shoving it into his own mouth. 

 

Race tried to eat as he cleaned up, as he always did, but ended up just walking around with a piece of toast hanging out of his mouth. He wasn’t a fan of cleaning, he kind of hated it if he was honest, but he loved eating. So he figured if he did something he  _ does  _ like while doing something he  _ doesn’t  _ like, it’ll all cancel out. And be somewhat neutral. At least that’s what he told Spot. Race had his own brand of logic that fit him, and him alone.

 

Spot slowly took a small bite of his toast, hoping to ease his stomach back into liking the taste of food. He took his time, choosing to stare down at his toast and not at Race. 

 

A plate slid into view. Spot looked up, to see Race pushing a plate across the bench. He nodded his thanks, placing the toast down. He wrung his hands together, simply for something to do. 

 

“Feelin’ better?” Race asked, an inquisitive look on his face. He waited silently for Spot to reply, knowing that it might take him a while. Spot wasn’t the best at feelings at the best of times, now even less so. 

 

“I guess.” Spot shrugged. He wasn’t lying exactly, he was feeling better, but not by much. Throwing up relieved some of the queasiness of his stomach, but his body was still rejecting the alcohol he had drank the night before. 

 

And that was to say nothing of his mind, which was growing more troubled by the second. The looming conversation, towered over him. Threatening to tear down the already crumbling wall that he built to keep everyone out. 

 

But Race had gotten through that wall. Chipped away at it until there was a gap just big enough to slip through. And Spot panicked. Lashed out once he realised how deep Race had burrowed his way into his heart. And Race got hurt. And lashed back. 

 

And now he had to either rebuild the wall with Race locked outside, or break down the wall and let him in. 

 

Both would be painful.

 

They remained silent, slowly eating their food. Attempting to settle their stomachs and minds. No one dared say a thing, not wanting to break the fragile veil between them. One wrong word and it would be back to yelling again. And Spot couldn’t handle that. He didn’t want that. He didn’t want to lose Race. He was the person he was closest to, the one person that Spot trusted and really cared for. 

 

But he fucked up. And now they were dancing around each other. Not voicing the things they needed to say in order to clear the air. That what he said was wrong. That he was sorry. That he shouldn’t have gotten into fights. That he shouldn’t have turned up on his doorstep drunk and injured. So many things he shouldn’t have done. So many things he regretted. 

 

Spot ate as slowly as he could, to ease his stomach into the idea of food, and to put off the looming conversation. Race finished before he did, and stood where he was unmoving. He put his dishes in the sink and then just waited. 

 

He didn’t say anything, didn’t rush, didn’t force Spot into the conversation. He knew from experience that you couldn’t force Spot to do anything. Say anything. So he waited. For Spot to be ready to speak. 

 

So Spot ate in silence, steeling himself for the words he would have to say. It’s not as it he didn’t  _ want _ to say them. He did. He just didn’t know how. If he was able. 

 

He was lucky it was Race and no one else. He knew how Spot worked. He would have patience. Spot _ hoped _ he had patience. Because this wouldn’t be easy.

 

Spot stared down at his empty plate, waiting to see if his stomach would revolt against him, and if Race would say anything. 

 

“We need to talk,” Race said softly, as to break the silence as gently as he could. 

 

“Yeah,” Was all Spot replied. Not knowing what exactly to say. “Should we sit? Or?”

 

“Last time I checked you’re already sitting,” Race replied, voice steady, but the corner of his lips quirked upwards. 

 

“Yeah, but you’re not,” Spot replied, and for a moment it felt like their normal banter. But it wasn’t quite the same. It had a serious edge to it, less of their normal lighthearted insults and joking tone. Normally they would add on an insulting name - like asshole, dickhead, or moron. But they couldn’t do that this time. It wouldn’t be a joke - almost a pet name as they grown to become - but an actual insult. 

 

Race let out a huff of laughter, before pushing off the bench and edging out of the kitchen. 

 

“Couch?” He asked. Spot just nodded, sliding off the stool and moving slowly towards the living room area. He followed Race, letting the other boy take the lead. It was his apartment, his hospitality, his good graces that were allowing Spot to remain inside and not on the street. 

 

Spot sat on the opposite edge from Race, not daring to go any closer than he thought he was allowed. He didn’t want to touch Race. He couldn’t handle it. Knowing that his touch was unwelcome. So he stayed away. 

 

Silence.

 

Spot looked down at his lap, steeling himself for the oncoming words. 

 

“What the fuck, Spot,” Race said, and Spot felt himself tense. He didn’t dare look. “I don’t hear anything from you for a week and you pull that? We fight, you disappear, and then you show up lookin’ like some fuckin’ drunk street rat.”

 

Spot took a deep breath, focusing on the feeling of the air filling his lungs. He looked over at Race, and he felt his chest constrict like vipers were winding their way around his heart. Race was angry, he was hurt, he was  _ disappointed.  _ He had every right to be, but it didn’t make Spot hurt any less. 

 

He didn’t care about the split lip, the bruises, the cuts, or even his most likely broken nose. He cared about Race. About what he had done to him.

 

“Not only were you drunk, you were covered in bruises, blood, and you had  _ fuckin’ glass in your shoulder.” _ Race continued, face continuing to fall with each word that left his lips. Spot remained silent. He needed to get it out. “And I don’t even know how it happened. Because, guess what, you were fuckin’ drunk. So I had to take care of you. Because you couldn’t.”

 

Spot felt himself start to falter, his barriers crumbling at Race voicing all the truths he had been denying. 

 

“I could have left you there. After that fight. Left you in the doghouse. After you said you were gettin’ sick of me. That I was ‘too much to handle’. That I had a gambling problem. That I was still in the closet because I’m ‘a  _ fuckin’ coward  _ who can’t stand up to his family.’. But I didn’t. Because I’m not a fuckin’ horrible person.”

 

Spot’s hands were clenched into fists, trying to restrain the emotions he desperately didn’t want to be feeling. 

 

“I hated you after that fight. I hated you.” Race said as he dipped his head, the anger leaving him to make way for something softer, but not weak. The emotions in him were still just as strong and Spot could feel every bit of it. “But, after a while I didn’t hate you. I was angry. I was hurt. I trusted you. I  _ loved _ you, and you spat it back in my face. So yeah, I took care of you. You scared the shit out of me Spot. Seeing you like that. Injured and you didn’t seem to fuckin’ care.”

 

Race got more choked up as he continued speaking, throat tightening with all the emotions he had been repressing for far too long. He looked down at his lap and sighed, holding back tears. All Spot wanted to do was to reach out and hold him, wrap in his arms and make him feel better. But he couldn’t. Because it was  _ him _ who did that. To Race. The one person he actually loved. 

 

Chest starting to shake, Spot let out a stuttering breath. There were so many things he needed to say. So many things to set right. He just wanted it to be like how it was before. But that wasn’t going to happen. They wouldn’t be the same. Spot fucked up everything he touched, taking down people with clenched fists and biting words that knew exactly where to hit. 

 

It was no wonder people always left. Because he would do this to them. 

 

“I didn’t mean to,” Spot started, voice quiet as he struggled to find the words.

 

“That’s the thing Spot,” Race countered. “You did mean it. You wanted me to hurt.”

 

Screwing up his face, Spot searched his brain for the right words. His hands were clenched at his sides. “I’m sorry.”

 

Race sighed, body deflating. “Sorry isn’t goin’ to cut it this time Spot.”

 

He nodded in reply. He knew that, but it was all he could force himself to say. So many words balancing on the tip of his tongue and all he can get out is ‘I’m sorry’. 

 

“I shouldn't have said what I did.” Spot started, slowing forcing out words bit by bit. “But I did and there’s no taking it back.”

 

Race nodded slightly, but he didn’t say anything in response. There was still Spot needed to say. But he didn’t know how. He couldn’t. He wasn’t like Race with a normal family. He didn’t get taught how to deal with this shit. So he didn’t. He didn’t want to. But now. Now, he  _ desperately _ wanted to let it out. To fix things. He needed it like a drowning man craved fresh air.

 

“I don’t know if there’s anythin’ I can say to fix it,” Spot started, wringing his hands together. “And I don’t know what to say but...I want to try. Fuck. I’m trying.”

 

He took a deep breath, working up the courage to voice what he hadn’t had to say before. Race remained silent, eyes wide, looking at Spot with what might have been adoration if the circumstances were different. It was more like earnest. Curiosity.

 

“I didn’t mean for it to hurt at first. What I said. I just didn’t think about it.” Spot said slowly, trying to process his thoughts. “But I did. Hurt you, I mean. And I’m sorry. I’m sorry for makin’ it worse.  And I’m sorry for showin’ up in the middle of the night drunk and injured. You didn’t have to take me in but you did and I’m grateful for that.”

 

He balled his hands into fists, pressing his nails into his palms. It hurt, and he focused on it, tearing his focus away from the pain tugging at his heart. Spot shut his eyes.

 

“The truth is. I was scared Race.” He opened his eyes, looking down at his lap. He didn’t dare look at Race, he didn’t think he could handle whatever the look on his face might be. “I’m not gettin’ tired of you. I couldn’t ever. I’m scared that you will.”

 

His voice cracked, and he shut his mouth tightly, clenching his fists harder. His nails were still digging in, and Spot had a feeling they were beginning to leave marks. Good. 

 

“So you lashed out.” Race said quietly, almost under his breath. Spot looked over, and saw Race looking at him with look he hadn’t seen on his face in a long time. It wasn’t pity. Never pity. But love. Or at least, that’s what Spot hoped it was. He nodded. 

 

“Everyone gets sick of me. And then they leave. And it hurts. By God, it hurts so bad.” Spot started again, letting the words flow out of him in such a way that they hadn't before. “So I keep people away. I act like an asshole. Because if they don’t care about me and I don’t care ‘bout them the leavin’ will hurt less. But I care about you Race. You got close like no one else had. And I got scared. What if you hated me? What if you left me? So I hurt you. Because if you hated me. Left on my terms, then it’d be easier.”

 

Spot jumped, looking down to see Race had touched his clenched fists, fingers softly drawing out his hands. He unclenched his fists, Race running his fingers over the crescent shaped marks dug into his palms. He sighed. “That’s why we’ve been fighting. Because I’m an asshole.”

 

“You’re not an asshole, ” Race started, his hands still over Spot’s. Spot looked over, and only just realised how close they were. His breath hitched in his throat. “But you did some asshole things Spot. I can’t ignore that. You hurt me.”

 

Spot felt his heart sink. He had a feeling it would be like this. That Race would hate him after all he did. It was understandable, Spot deserved it. But it didn’t make it hurt any less. “Okay.”

 

“But that doesn’t mean we have to leave it like this.” Race said, Spot jerking his head upwards to meet Race’s gaze. “We can’t go back to what we were before, but we can try and make it better. More gross discussion of feelings, and less fightin’. Because I don’t want to do this again. If you’re willin’ to put in the effort.”

 

“Okay,” Spot said softly, not quite believing what he had heard. 

 

“I’m serious Spot,” Race said, staring directly into Spot’s eyes. “You can’t just bottle it up anymore. And I can’t snap at you. We need to talk about this.”

 

“I know.” Spot replied quietly. “I can’t promise that it’ll be easy. Or that I won’t struggle but...”

 

“But?”

 

“I’m willin’ to try. For you.”

 

Race sucked in a sharp breath, and Spot felt his own breath hitch and stutter in his chest. Neither of them said anything, not wanting to break the moment that hovered between them like a pane of glass. One wrong move and it would all crash, shards of glass raining down upon them. 

 

“Okay,” Race replied, voice so quiet that the word almost went unheard. 

 

“What now?” 

 

“How about this?” Race said, louder this time, and turned Spot’s hand over and intertwined their fingers. Spot’s heart skipped a beat. “Start from the beginning.”

 

Spot laughed. “We didn’t exactly start like this, Race.”

 

Race just gave him a look. “You know what I mean. A new beginnin'.” 

 

“Okay.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finally made it! Thanks so much for reading it all. You even get a happy ending for your troubles.
> 
> If you want to say hey, feel free to check out my [tumblr](http://www.themeraldgraves.tumblr.com)


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